


Not Beyond Repair

by stjarna



Series: Writing Prompts / Drabbles / Requests [21]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fitzsimmons Secret Valentine, Fluff and Angst, Low M rating, Smut adjacent, Somehow manages to incorporate an alternate Maveth storyline (no SpaceBF), Tumblr: thefitzsimmonsnetwork, angsty feelings and true love, early season 2 AU, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 21:58:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9788903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stjarna/pseuds/stjarna
Summary: Written for Fitzsimmons Secret Valentine organized by TheFitzsimmonsNetwork on Tumblr.Prompt: angsty feelings and true love, please!Description: An early Season 2 AU (that yet also manages to incorporate an alternate Maveth story--sans SpaceBF). With some inspiration fromthis post(a post by the giftee)Smut level: Smut-adjacent (I wasn't even sure if it really deserved the M-rating)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Madalayna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madalayna/gifts).



“Coulson wants to see you right away,” May had told her, but Jemma had to see him first.

She knew it wouldn’t be easy. She knew it must have been hard for him. But she _had_ to see him, see how he had changed, improved, healed. He must have healed.

Coulson had never told her much during his visits, but Jemma held onto the hope that her decision had been right, that taking herself out of the equation would allow him to focus on himself and his recovery.

And then Hydra had figured out that they had a spy in their midst. And thanks to Raina, they knew _exactly_ who that spy had been. Whitehall’s revenge had been to use Jemma as the rat for one of Hydra’s twisted experiments.

“Good luck, Dr. Simmons. You’ll need it,” he had said, smiling coldly, before closing the door in front of her, leaving her with nothing but a white cell and a black monolith. And then it dissolved, engulfed her, and took her… _there_. Hell. Death. Solitude.

Three months. Sometimes she wasn’t even sure how she survived, _why_ she survived, why she _wanted_ to survive.

Some of it was not wanting to give Whitehall the satisfaction of seeing her succumb to her vast prison at the other end of the galaxy. Not that he _could_ see her, but her stubborn anger kept her going.

But some of it… some of it was the burning desire to get a second chance… at life, at love.

Once she realized there was no way for her to open a portal on her end, she waited right where she had arrived. Figured at some point the portal would open again. Maybe they’d send someone else through. Another prisoner. Another game piece in Whitehall’s toy chest.

She waited.

Ready.

Prepared.

And then it opened.

She jumped through.

Ready to fight whatever was waiting for her at the other end.

But instead she tumbled into Skye’s arms.

At first she thought she was hallucinating, but something about Skye’s wide-eyed expression made her realize this was real.

She was back on Earth and they were here to rescue her.

They.

Skye.

May.

And to her surprise, Whitehall’s Chief of Security, a double-agent by the name of Bobbi Morse as she was told once they were headed back to the Playground.

“Coulson wants to see you right away,” May had told her after they landed, but Jemma _had_ to see him first.

* * *

He’s not in the lab. Of course it’s the first place she checks. Her hair is still tangled and dirty, her clothes ripped, sand clinging to every inch of her body. The scientists and lab techs look at her, surprised, shocked, confused, disapproving, pitiful. She can’t quite decide.

She turns around and heads for his bunk. Her heart beats frantically when a stranger opens the door.

“Yes, love? Looking for the shower room?” he says somewhat cockily in a strong Londoner accent.

“Where’s Fitz?” she stammers, confused.

“You her?” is his reply.

Jemma stares at him, breathing heavily.

“Simmons!” May booms, making Jemma’s head shoot in her direction. “I told you Coulson wants to talk to you right away!”

“Is that her? You found her?” the stranger addresses May.

“Not now, Hunter,” May says through her teeth.

“Where’s Fitz?” Jemma asks again.

“Coulson. Now!” May growls, grabbing Jemma’s arm to pull her along, but her eyes are softer than her voice lets on.

* * *

“Where’s Fitz?” Jemma asks as soon as she steps inside Coulson’s office, as if those are the only words left in her vocabulary.

“Sorry,” May mutters behind her. “I should have escorted her here. Should have known she’d look for him otherwise.”

“It’s alright, May,” Coulson replies, putting the folder he’s holding on the table. “It’s good to have you back, Agent Simmons. Please sit down,” he tells Jemma, gesturing at the chair in front of his desk.

“Where is Fitz?” Jemma repeats, ignoring Coulson’s request. She crosses her arms in front of her chest, trying to stop them from trembling. She takes short, shallow breaths. Her eyes struggle to blink away tears.

Three months. Three months of solitude with nothing but her thoughts, her fears, her regrets. _One_ regret.

She needs to see him. Needs to talk to him. Needs him.

Coulson exhales sharply. “He left.”

“What do you mean, he left?” Jemma asks in shock.

“He left. We had to let him go. It was a mutual decision, really,” Coulson offers as an explanation that she doesn’t feel she can accept.

“Why? Why would you let him go? Why would he leave?”

“He didn’t get better, Jemma,” Coulson admits. “He wasn’t able to work, to complete tasks, to engineer. He felt like he was no use to us anymore. He asked to leave.”

His words rip out a piece of Jemma’s heart. She had left so Fitz could get better. It hadn’t worked. She had failed. Everything had been for naught.

“When?” she whispers, tears blurring her vision.

“Five months ago,” Coulson replies quietly.

She gasps. “What?” she asks, her voice shaking. “Five. Five months ago? He’s been gone for _five_ months? Why didn’t you tell me? You _saw_ me. You came to my flat.”

“I couldn’t, Jemma,” Coulson replies, walking around his desk until he stands in front of her. “Your mission was one of the most important undercover operations we had going. We needed you there. I couldn’t risk jeopardizing the mission. I needed you to stay focused. _One_ _hundred_ percent focused. And then… once Bobbi sent us the intel that you had vanished and until she figured out what Whitehall had done to you—”

“Did he know where I was?” she interrupts him. “Does he know that Hydra… that Whitehall… what happened?”

Coulson shakes his head. “Your mission was classified. You know that. And once he left, he lost all clearance levels. I couldn’t tell him, even if I wanted to. It wouldn’t have been right.”

Jemma nods in reluctant understanding. “Where is he now?”

“Scotland,” Coulson tells her. “He’s with his mother.”


	2. Chapter 2

He’s wearing black slacks, a dark-blue long-sleeved button-up, and his favorite cardigan. His hair is shorter on the sides and he’s grown out a bit of stubble.

She watches him get groceries from the back of his mother’s car, talking to her, laughing with her. He looks well. Confident. Happy.

It doesn’t compare to the last time she saw him. The nervousness. The tremor in his hand. The sadness in his eyes, which always seemed to be fixed to the ground. His slumped shoulders. None of that is here.

She watches him. He’s so close.

Seeing him, talking to him. It had been her driving force for months. Part of her survival strategy.

Now she can’t make herself get out of her rental.

She wipes away the tears streaming down her cheeks, puts the car into gear, and drives away.

* * *

Jemma sits on the bed in her hotel room. Her hair is still slightly damp after her shower. She notices some wet spots forming on her t-shirt.

She had hoped the shower would allow her to relax, free her mind, but instead her head had continued a single song on repeat: _You bloody coward!_

Her laptop rests on her crossed legs. She lets out a disgruntled groan when yet another search for same-day flights back to the US comes up empty.

A knock on the door causes her head to shoot up in panic. Nervously, she puts her laptop down on the nightstand and walks over to the door, looking through the peephole.

She hesitates for a moment, watching him as he scratches the back of his neck, looking left and right down the hallway, before staring back at her door. Then she takes a deep breath and opens the door.

“D’you really think I didn’t see you?” he asks quietly, and the hint of sadness in his tone brings tears to her eyes.

A nod is all she manages as a reply.

He sighs deeply. “What are you doing here?” he follows-up.

“I came to see you,” she admits, shrugging her shoulders.

He scoffs. “Then why didn’t you?”

Her gaze wanders to the floor. “I don’t… I don’t know. I couldn’t.”

He exhales sharply.

She forces herself to look back up. “How did you know where to find me?” she asks curiously.

He chuckles briefly. “You realize where you are, right? This town has one hotel and two guest houses.”

The corners of her mouth quirk up into a shy smile. She nods and mumbles a quiet “Right.”

“Why now?” he asks.

She doesn’t quite understand. Or maybe she doesn’t want to. “What?”

“Why’d you come now?” he clarifies. “You’ve been back from your mission for two months.”

His reply surprises her. “You knew?”

He nods and briefly lifts his shoulders. “Skye called and told me you were back.”

“You’ve been in touch with Skye?”

“Occasionally.”

“But you left,” Jemma remarks, surprised.

“I left S.H.I.E.L.D. Not my friends,” he replies matter-of-factly.

Her eyes wander aimlessly, trying to process what he’d said. “You _knew_ I was back and you didn’t… you didn’t try to—” she tries to ask.

“Are you serious?” he exclaims, straightening up, pulling back his shoulders. He points at her. “ _You_ left! _You_ left and I had _no_ idea where you went or what happened to you for _seven_ months!” The force of his voice makes her shiver. “And now… now you’re telling me that _I_ …” He gestures at himself. “That _I_ should have reached out to _you_? Where do you come off?” he yells, throwing both hands in the air. “ _You_ left!” Once again, his index finger darts in her direction.

Seven months. She had been gone seven months. She had envisioned their reunion countless times. There had been so many scenarios. Some in which they’d scream at each other. Those had been her least favorite. Yet, maybe she should have anticipated this would be the way it would go.

“I went undercover,” she yells back.

“I know,” he waves her off, his voice harsh, sarcastic. “Classified. Top-secret. Undercover at Hydra. And eventually things went south and they had to pull you out. Yeah, Skye told me.”

She clenches her jaw. His tone hurts. His words. His lack of understanding. His indifference.

“Did she?” Jemma shouts, trying to push back the tears that are creeping to the surface. She tries to steady her breathing. “Did she also tell you the part where my cover blew and Whitehall sent me through a portal to a different planet? Banished me? Left me to die?”

“Wha—?” he starts, barely above a whisper.

“Did she tell you that I spent _three_ months there,” Jemma continues without paying his attempted interruption any heed. “With a makeshift shelter, and twigs to eat and a dirty puddle with barely enough water to survive?”

Her hands begin to gesture wildly. “Did she tell you that during that time I wondered more than once if I should give up? If I should stop drinking that _disgusting_ filth, should stop chewing on dried up plants to suck out whatever traces of nutritional value they might have?”

She takes a step closer and stabs her index finger into his chest, and he takes it without a word, just wide blue eyes staring back at her. “Did she tell you that while I sat there, rethinking my life, pondering my life’s choices, that there was really only _one_ thing I regretted?”

She clenches her hands into fists. “Did she tell you that I regret not having the courage to talk to you after what happened? Did she tell you that I thought about how _all_ I wanted was my best friend back when you were lying in your coma, for _nine_ days? How I wanted my best friend back, because I was too afraid to lose you.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, rubbing her forehead, before staring back at him. “I wanted my best friend back,” she continues more quietly, her voice breaking now. “Because the other thing it… it scared me.”

She sobs, trying to steady her shaky breath. “Because I had seen what it did to you. Love. What it made you do. Sacrifice yourself for me!”

He wets his lips, opens his mouth, closes it. A failed attempt to say something in return.

Jemma gestures at herself. “It was _my_ fault that you were lying there in a coma. It was _my_ fault that you were broken. And yet, I realized that had you given me a chance, I would have done the same.”

She bites her lower lip, squinting her eyes, feeling more tears roll down her cheeks. “You were—” she continues quietly. “You had done the math.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “I was so focused on our plan. That we _had_ a plan to get out of it. I didn’t think about the oxygen. I didn’t do the math. You did and so… you had that choice.”

She inhales slowly. “But I would have done the same… and … I had never felt this way before. I’ve dated. I’ve had relationships. But I’ve never been in love, Fitz.”

She shakes her head. “Not like _that_! I didn’t even know what that felt like. And once I felt it, once I sat next to you, and you were so pale and barely breathing and barely alive and I _felt_ it and it _scared_ me, because it’s so strong and overwhelming and… I was scared. I was scared, Fitz. And I regret that. I regret being scared of love. I regret not telling you.”

Her voice gets louder again, more urgent. “I regret missing my chance. I sat on that planet thinking what if. What if I had told you once you woke up? What if… what if I got another chance? What if—”

She exhales. “And then I come back and you’re gone.”

She presses her lips together, before letting a puff of air escape her rounded lips. “I lost three months of my life on that planet,” she explains, before scoffing angrily. “Hell, I lost _seven_ months of my life, pretending to be a version of myself that I hated, pretending to support Hydra. And I missed you! I missed you so much it hurt.”

She stabs her chest with her fingers. “It _physically_ pained me and I came back and all I wanted was to see you, to talk to you, to admit what I…and you were gone! And it _hurt_ that Coulson hadn’t told me. And the whole experience… being left to die, being alone, alone for _months_ , trying to survive and...”

She shrugs. “I couldn’t come and find you right away, because I needed to find myself again _first_. I needed time! I needed to heal! For _two_ weeks they wouldn’t even let me leave my isolation cell. They packed me in cotton, tried to protect me. Therapy session after therapy session after therapy session. And I _hated_ it but I needed it. I _needed_ it.”

She gazes at him, his face blurred by her tears. “But I missed you! It hurt. It hurt not having you there and feeling like it was all my fault. It hurt. It hurt!”

She closes her eyes, and her body shakes, unable to hold in the flood of tears any longer.

Instinctively, her eyes shoot open when she feels his hands cupping her cheeks, and she is greeted by his eyes inches away from her face. They’re fighting back tears of their own.

And then his lips crash against hers, urgently, unexpectedly, and she feels her entire body tense up.

“I didn’t know,” he whispers, before he kisses her again, with the same sense of desperation, but softer this time. “I didn’t know.” He kisses her again, and again. “I didn’t… Skye didn’t… I would have… I—”

He pauses, breathing heavily as he gazes at her. “What happened to me wasn’t your fault, Jemma,” he tells her, his trembling thumbs caressing her cheeks. “It was _my_ choice. And it wasn’t supposed to be this grand romantic gesture. It _wasn’t_ romantic. I _knew_ it wasn’t. I _knew_ I would cause you pain. But it was...” He shrugs. “It was what I _had_ to do. I needed _you_ to live. I couldn’t let you die.” He shakes his head. “I _couldn’t_. I love you and I couldn’t… I couldn’t.” She feels his anxious breath on her lips, before he continues. “And I’d do it all over again if I had to.”

Jemma stares at him, tears streaming down her face. She doesn’t want him to say it. She doesn’t want him to scare her like that again. She wants him to be alive. She wants him to be here. With her. She wants his love. Wants to accept it, return it.

She cups his face and kisses him, his eyes, his cheeks, his nose, all those spots she had kissed at the bottom of the ocean. And then she kisses his lips. The spot she had missed. The spot she hadn’t allowed herself to kiss.

She kisses him hungrily, and his arms wrap around her, bringing her closer. Jemma pulls him into the room, while his arm frantically reaches behind him, pushing the door shut.

She grabs his jacket and pushes it over his shoulders, hearing it drop to the floor while her hands reach for the buttons of his shirt, opening them one by one, her hands brushing against his pale chest.

She feels his fingertips at the hem of her t-shirt, barely touching the naked skin at the small of her back, and yet the sensation is electrifying. His hands glide underneath her shirt, while hers help him shed his button-up, roam across his back, feeling his muscles tensing at her touch.

He lifts her shirt over her shoulders. She’s aware of her nakedness, her vulnerability, and yet she feels stronger than she’s ever felt. He drops her shirt to the floor, and his arms eagerly reach for her, pulling her back into his embrace. His lips find hers again.

He guides her to the bed. She sits down, her hands reaching for his belt buckle, the zipper of his trousers, while his grab the hem of her sweatpants.

They undress each other and with every piece of clothing they let go of, Jemma lets go as well. She lets go of three months of solitude, of seven months without seeing him, of ten months of feeling disconnected from him. She lets go of her fears, her doubts, her guilt.

She feels his naked body on top of her, his hands caressing her tender skin, exploring her body, his fingers lingering over her scars, asking, worrying. She feels his lips on hers, on her neck, her breasts, her stomach.

She pushes away her doubts, doesn’t care about what it means, where it will lead. She allows herself to feel, to want, to pull him closer with her arms, her legs, her body, allows him inside her body, her mind, her soul.

She allows herself to become one with him, to follow his rhythm, _their_ rhythm.

Their breathing, their heartbeats, their lips, their hands, their bodies. They’re one. In unison. Present. Now.

* * *

She lies on top of him, cradling his hips between her legs, still joined, still one. His fingers are drawing patterns on her naked back. Her head rests on his chest and she listens as his heartbeat slowly calms down.

“What now?” she asks quietly, not daring to look at him.

“I’m not sure,” he replies as his hand combs through her hair. “What do you want it to be?” he asks. “One night. No past. No future. Just now? Or—”  
  
Jemma quickly lifts her head and sits up to face him. “Or… I want it to be _or_.”

He lets out a chuckle and the smile it causes lingers on his lips. “And what exactly is _or_?” he asks, his hands resting on her hips.

Jemma takes a slow breath. “A start?” she suggests, crawling off his body to lie down next to him instead. “A chance?”

He turns onto his side to face her, propping himself up on his elbow. His smile disappears, and his eyes grow serious. “Would you…?” he begins but stops himself.

“What?” she asks, gently stroking his arm.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I just… I know we both have had our share of therapy lately, but maybe...” He sighs. “Would you consider therapy _with_ me?”

Her lips mouth a surprised _oh_. “Like couple’s therapy?” she asks.

“Yeah, kinda,” he admits, one corner of his mouth quirking up inquisitively.

A smile flashes across Jemma’s face. “That would imply we’re a couple.”

“Yeah, kinda,” he replies, unable to hide a smile himself.

Jemma sighs, pondering his idea.

“It’s just,” Fitz mutters, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “If that whole yelling match earlier… and to be honest a few in our past are _any_ indication then we could use a little help in the ‘talking about things’ division.”

She chuckles. “True. But. Doesn’t it seem _weird_ to begin a relationship by going to couple’s therapy?”

Fitz shakes his head slightly. “We’ve been in a relationship for ten years, Jemma. But if we want ‘ _or_ ’ then we _are_ changing the parameters of that relationship, the dynamics, the…” He shrugs his shoulders. “We need help. _I_ need help. I don’t know squat about this kinda stuff, but I do want it… this ‘ _or_ ’… and I don’t want to muck it up.”

Jemma gazes into his eyes, her lips twitching, as a sense of hope fills her mind. “Where would this therapy take place?” she asks. “I mean, are you… would you come back?”

He bites his lower lip. “Depends on if they’ll take me back,” he replies. “I’m better, for sure. My hand’s not really giving me much trouble anymore,” he says, letting it glide down her arm. “And therapy almost every day for months on end, plus my mum pestering me to practice more and challenge myself has certainly also helped with the speech patterns and all that, but… I wouldn’t say I’m back to who I was.”

Jemma smiles. “You don’t have to be.” She takes a deep breath. “Nobody stays the same person throughout their entire life,” she says. “Especially not when… What happened to _you_. What happened to _us_. It’s bound to change us, but…” She shrugs. “Who says it changes us for the worse? Look at you. You’re so… confident and determined and…” She sighs, blinking away tears. “I had hoped that would happen. That’s why I left,” she admits.

He squints his eyes questioningly.

“I felt like I was holding you back,” Jemma explains. “Whenever I saw you talk to other people at the base during your recovery, you seemed to make progress, but as soon as I entered the room.” She pauses. “Taking myself out of the equation was the only thing I could think of, but I… I regret _how_ I did it and I regret—”

“Stop,” Fitz says quietly, squeezing her shoulder. “If this is going to be a start, a second chance, then we can’t dwell on the past. I mean we should probably talk about it—with, you know, maybe the professional help I mentioned earlier—but maybe we should give up on regret and guilt and doubting ourselves.”

Jemma smiles shyly. “You’re not mad?”

He lets out a puff of air. “Not anymore. I _was_ angry and absent and I pushed you away and yes, in a way, I was worse when you were around, because I was so mad at myself, because I wanted to prove myself to myself _and_ to you and I felt like I was failing but…” He exhales sharply. “It wasn’t your fault… that was _me_. _I_ was angry and _I_ didn’t let you help me. I _couldn’t_. I don’t think I tried to understand you before, and that was wrong. I assumed. I made assumptions and I … I shouldn’t have.”

“I should have been more honest,” Jemma admits sadly.

He sighs, curling his fingers around her neck, his thumb gently caressing the soft skin below her eye. “Same here. But let’s stop the ‘should haves’ and the ‘what ifs’… Let’s move forward.”

Jemma smiles. “I’d like that.”

He scoots closer to her, his hand gently pushing on her waist. Intuitively, Jemma rolls onto her back, allowing him to crawl on top of her, one leg sliding between her thighs. He pushes himself up on his elbows, and gazes down at her. “I love you, Jemma,” he whispers and leans down to kiss her gently. “And if I’d known what Whitehall did to you, I would have—”

“Risked your life all over again to save mine?” she whispers, her hands reaching for his neck, playing with his hair, as she feels tears filling her eyes, some happy, some sad.

He nods ever-so-slightly.

“I don’t ever want you to have to do that again,” Jemma says sternly, blinking away her tears.

“I’d quite prefer not to myself,” Fitz replies quietly, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “I’d much prefer _both_ of us _very_ much alive and together.”

“Together sounds good,” Jemma agrees, barely above a whisper.

She pulls him closer, kissing him with the desire to turn the serenity of this moment, this night into something never-ending; to stretch their new beginning, their chance at something more to infinity.

She savors his lips brushing against hers, the surge of heat rushing through her body when their tongues begin to dance once more.

His breath fills her lungs. His scent fills her everything.

It feels like a missing piece of her heart has finally been returned to her. She is back home. There are still cracks in the walls, and broken windows, but it is stable. It’s not beyond repair. It might just stand the test of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re Fitz's home in Scotland: My headcanon was always that Fitz comes from a small Scottish town. Now that Glasgow has been confirmed in canon, my new headcanon will be that Fitz’s mum moved them to a small town after his dad left (‘cause I love the idea of small-town Fitz :D )
> 
> Re couple's therapy: This idea actually came to me remembering a podcast interview I had heard with Kristen Bell, where she talked about how she and Dax Shepard basically started their (serious) relationship by going to couple's therapy [after initially dating casually and Dax breaking up with her].


End file.
